


the white fawn

by alltheworldsinmyhead



Series: and you know for me it's always you [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Domestic Bliss, F/M, First Love, Found Family, and gendry follows, arya chooses a different path, book canon is the best canon, self discovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-28
Updated: 2019-08-28
Packaged: 2020-09-28 19:55:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20431562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alltheworldsinmyhead/pseuds/alltheworldsinmyhead
Summary: What Arya wants is to rest, to laugh, to plant trees and see them grow. And maybe, just maybe, Sansa's songs are not so stupid after all. // What if Arya and Gendry never parted ways?





	the white fawn

**Author's Note:**

> Well, this is just my self-indulgence, suit yourself. Book canon except no Lady Stoneheart for my personal convenience and no kidnapping by the Hound. Please excuse all the possible mistakes; I am Polish and sleep-deprived and I start work in 6 hours, Jesus Christ.

> _If the end of the world was near_  
_Where would you choose to be?_  
_If there was five more minutes of air_  
_Would you panic and hide_  
_Or run for your life_  
_Or stand here and spend them with me_  
_If we had five more minutes_  
_Would I, could I, make you happy?_  
  
  
_And we would live again_  
_In the simplest of ways_  
_Living day after day_  
_Like some primal animals_  
_We would love again_  
_Under glorious suns_  
_With the freedom that comes with the truth_
> 
> _\- End of the World_
> 
> * * *

Arya is, as more often than not lately, awaken by the high-pitch shrill of a newborn babe piercing her ears and immediately making her breasts fill up. With a pained groan, she untangles herself from her sleeping husband’s arms and tumbles off the cot; it’s still dark outside, so early, that the birds are still quiet, but late enough that the embers in the fireplace have already gone cold. Her breath forms a mist in the air when she exhales.

_Winter is coming._

The new babe is a girl, which makes her head spin a little bit. She has only ever carried boys and took care of boys; boys, in her mind, are a simpler breed, easier to understand. She has never been that good at talking with other girls or making friends among them, even when she was just a lass and that remains one of the very few things that haven’t changed upon her flowering and marriage. But her little girl is cute beyond measure, with her button-like nose and beautiful eyes, blue and round as a doe’s. Gendry adores the very sight of her, cradling her in his arms for hours and skipping work just to stare at her in awe. After weeks of deliberations, they have decided to name her Alysanne and began calling her Aly, _which_, Arya reasons in her head, _is a good enough compromise between going with something too fancy and attention-catching and completely forgetting any high-born connotation._

True, Arya is no lady now and Alysanne will never be a lady anyway. But she is of North still, with Stark blood running in her veins and she deserves a name to reflect this. A name carried by Good Queen Alysanne and Black Aly, wife of Lord Cregan Stark, who gave her maidenhead to a horse and who ranked amongst Arya’s favorite characters in Old Nan’s bedtime stories.

‘’Shhhh, sweetling, don’t cry.’’ – Arya reaches inside the wicker basket set next to the dark fireplace and swiftly raises her daughter up, cradling her to her chest. – ‘’Shhh, we don’t want to wake your father up, do we?’’

For a second or two Arya tries to remember times when she did not know how to nurse a babe, how to lull it to sleep with a song or shush its fussing, but it seems a lifetime away. She recalls though, how miserable she was when Jory was born, how helpless she felt. Gendry would come back from the forge and find her sitting on the floor, crying alongside their newborn boy. Her nipples cracked so that it was too painful for her to nurse and she would stain all her shirts with blood and milk. And Jory would sob and sob, for hours with no end; his little body squirming in her arms and his little face turning all purple.

She recalls wishing desperately for her mother, for Sansa, for any woman really to just appear out of thin air and teach her what she never wanted to learn until it was too late to find any teacher.

How they survived those first few months – her and Gendry, barely grown themselves and with no one to guide them – she has no idea, but in time they have learned. Slowly and painfully, but they did. And now she is left thinking how unfair it was for poor Jory to suffer her unsteady hands and Gendry’s too rough grip, when his brothers and sister had it so much easier.

Funny enough, she has never understood why her mother wanted so many children in the first place, but she understands it now so perfectly, as she sits down on the threshold, wrapping a blanket around her daughter and herself and watching Aly suckling, all content and calm. It gets easier. It gets addicting. It wrecks her heart every time in the most wonderful way to bear yet another child and watch them grow.

From their little hut up on the hill, she can see the pink stone walls of Maidenpool, strangely ethereal while surrounded by the early morning mist. The sun’s barely up, but she knows that the silver waters of Bay of Crabs are somewhere beyond it. The fisherman must get be getting ready to sail, if they are not aboard already.

And behind her, inside the house, there is a quiet gruff and then the sound of the heavy footsteps, before a pair of lips is pressed to Arya’s cheek, warming her up better than any blanket could.

‘’Well, good morning, m’lady. Seems someone broke their fast early today.’’

*

Autumn sun does not color her skin, but instead makes it all spotty, scattering little brown freckles across her nose and cheekbones.

They lay together on the sweet-smelling grass and Gendry attempts to count them all, except either he is worse with sums than she though he is, or he makes mistakes just to start over again. She just stays still with her eyes closed and savors the moment; it’s rare now, that they have an afternoon like that all to themselves. It’s getting colder and colder, and their house is far from finished. Between slaving in the forge in the Maidenpool and constructions in every free time he has, Gendry falls asleep the moment his head rests on the flat surface. And she’s so tired now also, straight to her bones. She has taken to tending to horses in the local minor lord’s stables and that might be quite much more work than she thought it would be.

But Gendry is not sleeping now. And she is not tired.

‘’Leave ‘em be, they will fade soon enough.’’

‘’I don’t want them to fade. Look at you.’’ She feels the tip of his nose pressing against hers ‘’You have spots like a fawn.’’

_I could ride with Gendry and be an outlaw, like Wenda the White Fawn in the songs. Isn’t that what I used to imagine?_

‘’M’lady.’’ He kisses her jaw.

‘’My forest lass.’’ He kisses her neck.

‘’Mind your words, Waters.’’ She growls, but there is no bite in her voice, no heat. Hard to be angry, when the sun is so warm and the grass is so soft, and Gendry puts his hand on her barely swollen belly oh-so-gently and kisses it also, through layers upon layers of clothing but still somehow managing to make her shiver.

‘’My love, then.’’

She opens her eyes slowly and his face is right above hers, blue eyes sparkling. And so, she smiles, as widely as she can, because why shouldn’t she? This is hers. All this happiness is hers. She can as well own it.

‘’This one I can approve of.’’

*

They are married on her ten and sixth name day, Brotherhood in a half-circle around them chanting ‘’Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!” to the rhythm of the stomping boots and whistling sharply when they do.

She has a crown of wildflowers on her head – forget-me-nots, poppies, pennyroyal and hellebores entwined with weeds and wheat, and tied with white ribbons. Jeyne and Willow presented it to her as a wedding gift, along with a maiden cloak. No sigil on it, but its grey trimmed with white and makes her choke on tears when she looks at it.

(_These are poisonous, y’know?- _he asks her in their marriage bed on the Crossroads Inn, lazily playing with the strands of her hair and a few flowers still left tangled in them.

_Fitting for me. _\- she only mumbles in response, tired and content, her eyelids heavy.

He chuckles quietly and it’s such a joyful sound that her heart clenches in her chest.

_You don’t know what you’re talking about, Arya. – _comes his whisper and then he caresses her bare thigh with a blade of pennyroyal until blood rushes back to her head, until her breath catches; with this, all the conversations and her tiredness are forgotten.

Later, she thinks the girls might have tried to suggest something with their choice of flowers. But, ironically or not, her crown stays discarded into parts on the inn’s floors and she does not drink moon tea after that night or ever, for that matter. Heddle sisters subtle offer is declined before it could be even considered)

Her dress – because she actually dons a dress, to surprise of everyone – is bought with blood money Arya had taken from the raper whom she had killed a fortnight before. After she left him choking on blood on the King’s Road, she was unsure what she should do with the heavy sack. She couldn’t give it back to the lass he abused and robbed, for she was gone along her parents, so she kept it in her pocket for a day or two and then slipped away to the marketplace nearby. The dress has short sleeves and is made from simple yellow silk, which makes Tom Sevenstrings lets out a bark of laughter and plays Forest Love all night long… which he would do regardless, but maybe, just maybe, this one time Arya does not mind.

The flower crown, the yellow dress, her dark hair washed and combed; it is all worth it, just to see the sun in Gendry’s eyes when he is looking at her.

She loves him, she loves him, she loves him. She says her vows with all the conviction, all the sweetness she can manage to put in speech and she watches as he blooms with happiness when hers ‘’I take this man’’ rings loud and clear. He kisses her as if it was their last night and not the first of many and, in between kisses, promises to let her guard him with her sword, which makes her laugh breathlessly against his lips.

_I wish Jon could be here. –_ crosses her mind briefly, but then there is dancing and singing and bedding, and she refuses to think of past long gone anymore.

*

‘’The Brotherhood is going North, to fight the dead. ‘’ he pauses for a second, his eyes glued to his hands. “You can go home. You know Boltons are gone – I heard your brother Jon is the new King in the North. You are a Northern princess again, Arya.’’

_Home. _

Her heart beats in her chest painfully fast.

_Home._

_What does it mean now?_

She hasn’t seen Winterfell since she was a child, since she was nine. She barely remembers it now; the summer snows, the Godswood, her father’s laughter, her mother’s gentle hands. Jon’s smile.

She could take it back, have it back. But then she couldn’t.

_Home._

Unwillingly, the thoughts of Gendry’s eyes and greenery of Riverlands' forests cross her mind.

“A princess. Do you think this is what I’m fit for, Gendry?’’

Back to Winterfell, to her remaining siblings; back to the life of highborn lady with servants and manners, who is not supposed to associate with smallfolk. Who is not supposed to fall in love with bastard base-born blacksmiths, even if her bastard base-born blacksmith is a knight. Even if he is a good person, a good man, the best one she has ever met.

The one who saw her starving and desperate, and hopeless. The one who would wash the blood off her skin and guard her against cold.

Gendry chuckles at that, reaching out to take her hand in his. His skin is rough, but his touch is delicate; he is always delicate with her, even when he tries not to be. Gently, he runs his thumb across her knuckles.

‘’Those little things – but not so soft anymore, huh. Suppose you don’t want to trade your Needle for a regular one still?

She lets out a bark of laughter. _Why do you know me so well? Why are you like this?_

‘’Yes, I’m dreaming of becoming a master embroiderer indeed.”

Gendry’s smile is a rare thing, but he has always gifted her with it generously and freely. I would make her stomach feel funny even before she flowered and now it has a dangerous power over her; she can never get enough of it, she can never stop mourning how short are those moments of happiness painted on his face. It’s like seeing the sky clear up for a moment before storm clouds cover it again. And this time too, soon enough the corners of his lips drop.

‘’But you miss your family, right? You belong with them.’’ – there is tightness in his voice, as if he was stopping himself from saying something.

She takes a deep breath, bracing herself. _Fear cuts deeper than swords. Stop being a coward, Arya. _

‘’I don’t know,’’ she answers quietly, putting her other hand on top of his. ‘’I don’t know if I belong with them anymore.’’

Winterfell would not be like in her rainbow-colored memories. Jon would be a stranger to her now, Sansa too. And she would be a stranger to them, after everything she went through. She could go North and be a highborn lady again, if she couldn’t ride with Brotherhood anymore. She could learn how to love her siblings again.

_Until they would marry me off to some lesser bannerman just to forge an alliance. _– voice cold as a winter wind hisses inside her head

_Jon wouldn’t do it!_

_The Jon you knew wouldn’t. But he is a King now. _– she thinks of Robb, how easily he traded her hand for a godsdamned bridge, how he sold her without a second thought but married for love himself. – _You will never be free in Winterfell. You have never been free there._

_You will marry a high lord and rule his castle._

_Do you want that, Arya?_

_What do I want, really?_

What she wants it to rest, to laugh, to plant trees and see them grow. And maybe, just maybe, Sansa's songs are no so stupid after all, for she supposes she could forget Riverlands, mud on her face and wind in her hair. She could forget Brotherhood and Heddle sisters and Hot Pie. She could put Needle down and never mention being an outlaw again.

But there is one thing she refuses to sacrifice.

She raises her head, until her eyes found Gendry’s stare. His eyebrows are furrowed with concern, his lips pressed tightly together. Oh, how she loves his face. How she loves his heart. How much she wished to never part with him. She cannot even recall how it was to be on her own, without him.

Father is dead. Mother is dead. Robb is dead. Bran and Rickon are dead. There is nothing waiting for her in the Winterfell, not anymore. But maybe, just maybe, she can have something here.

‘’I don’t think my family is in the North.’’ – she says slowly and then waits patiently, watching Gendry eyes widening as the meaning of her words unfolded in his head.

‘’Arya-‘’

‘’Could you be my family, Gendry? If Brotherhood leaves… could you stay with me?’’ – she blurts out hastily, before she can stop herself, before she can cage her heart in her chest as she did ever since she saw Gendry slow dancing with Jeyne Heddle and bitter jealousy almost choke her, _he’s mine _stuck in her throat.

For a second or two he remains silent, still holding her hand and staring at her face as if he was trying to read it. And then, apparently getting his fill, he swiftly pulls her closer, so that her body is flush against his. He cups her cheeks, letting his forehead rest on hers.

She feels as if she was on fire, her whole skin tingling head-to-toe, trembling in anticipation. Her lips part slightly and she can see his eyes darkening.

‘’Aye, Arya. I will be your family.’’ He says quietly, his voice low and solemn.

“Even when the dead come down South and kill us all?’’

It’s a far more serious question than she intended it to be, but she’s still rewarded by his smile for asking it.

‘’Well, I hope you will protect me then.’’

Arya seals her fate with a kiss; her fingers carding through Gendry’s hair and the light of the setting sun warming her cheeks.

*

She doesn’t wonder about her siblings very often, to be honest.

But sometimes, in rare moments of calm and solitude, those thoughts just creep on her. What would her younger brother, Lord Bran Stark do, if she knew who she became? What would her favorite brother, King Jon Targaryen do? What would her little brother, Sir Rickon Stark do? More interestingly, would her sister, lady Sansa Clegane, gasp at Arya’s choices considering her own?

These are just fantasies she indulges in, nothing that breaks her internal conviction that where she is, is precisely where she is supposed to be. All of her surviving boys rose so terribly high. She must seem like a fuzzy memory right now, just like they are to her. As happy as she was when she learned that Bran and Rick turned out to be fine and whole after all, it did not change her mind, so she supposes nothing will. The Stark Pack is no longer and she has a new pack now. Four boys for four brothers; one girl for one sister.

But sometimes, just sometimes, at the dead of the night, she lays with her cheek pressed to Gendry’s chest and tries to recall her parents' faces and voices. She wonders how outraged Mother would be to see her living under the Tully dominium but not in the fine castle but in one of the huts on the rolling hills near Maidenpool. And then she would inevitably ponder on if her Father would be disappointed to see whom she decided to spend her life with.

There are tales of her, endless speculation how and when she disappeared from the history scrolls into the dark. She became quite a story. Arya Stark, Lost Princess of the Realm. Who would have thought that in the world of Undead and dragons and hidden Targaryen heirs, she is now Arya, blacksmith’s wife with no surname at all and a litter of children around her, equally nameless; no princes nor knights, but well-fed and well-loved they are. Happy.

_I am no lady, but I am well-loved also. If Sansa or Jon or Bran or Rick really love me... If Father and Mother really wanted me to be happy… That should be enough for them. _– she reasons in her head those nights, pressing herself closer to Gendry until he tightens his hold of her. Listening to her children steady breathing and her husband’s heartbeat, she drifts into dreams of snow and blood and wolves.

*

White linen is billowing on the wind, drying on the clothesline. Her sons are running up the hill; Arya watches their four dark heads as they meet with Gendry halfway; he leans down, somehow scoops them all at once into his open arms and spins around. Their shrieks of joy are so loud that Aly wakes up in her wicker basket and coos, waving her little hands to have her picked up.

There is sweetness in the air; it tastes like summer, summer that never ends.

Arya inhales deeply and kneels on the ground, letting baby grab her long dark hair. Her husband is almost home, their boys in tow.

_I need no songs, my brothers can keep them, my sister can keep them; this is enough. _

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed my desperate attempt to make least domestic asoiaf paring as domestic as possible. If you like the fic, please, please leave me a comment - I hoard them like a dragon and spend whole days re-reading them over and over again. Have a nice day <3


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